Posted on 13th October, 2016




Common Puff-Ball : Leonie Ewing



Two Bird Poems 


Roosting aloft     


At ebb of day

a fleet of swifts

dark, sleek, fork-ruddered

silently rise, cruise thermals 

ride gentle airstreams, turbulent waves

napping, yet mindful of wind-shift, drift and speed

star-anchored, first to see bursting dawn

circling on high till streets awake −

descending a mile of empty sky

down, down, then swoop

like screaming pirates

invade our town.



Hi cuckoo!  


Welcome back, nomad

from Congo forests, deserts, 

sunny deltas, plains.


Barbara Meanrs



Family posession prompt ;


page 2 of a Love letter from a soldier in the Near East in WW2.


Are you still cooking for the Yanks, darling? I think about food a lot and try not to be jealous that you are feeding them. There is a good bit of malaria and sand-fly fever here. Some of the chaps are being moved up the desert soon. I don't suppose there's any chance of anything happening to me but if it does I hope you have a wonderful and fulfilling life. Get married, have children, just as we thought to.  

The days go rushing on in other places, war is being fought on all fronts but here. Our days are slow; we lie in idle groups, streams of ants move sand... I so need to see holly berries and hold you, your cheeks polished red as you drop into my arms from the top of the stile up by Howe Wood. 

If you feel lonely just close your eyes and I’ll be there, my darling...remember every night I hold you in my arms and dream it's the end of this bloody mess. 

A mix of family fact and my fiction.


Steph Newham.


                                                                    Poppy Dance


                                                                    Red carpet shimmers in heat

                                                                    Breeze sends waves curtseying

                                                                    Over a thousand fragile petals

                                                                    Ripe corn plays a gold counterpoint;

                                                                    Unmoved by beauty mice climb

                                                                    Begin their yearly harvest

                                                                    Among silent ears;

                                                                    Sheltered in scarlet shade

                                                                    From hawk’s hungry gaze,

                                                                    Betrayed by stillness

                                                                    As breeze departs,

                                                                    Movement where no movement should be

                                                                    Brings death to cornfield’s heart,

                                                                    Flowers dance a funeral measure,

                                                                    Hawk lifts his prey above poppies.


                                                                   Anne Micklethwaite





Porcelain Fingus - Leonie Ewing



Shared Table


They visit the restaurant

Sharing table

In harmony

The rounded red chest of the chaffie

Who is friend of the robin

Who tolerates the tits

Who respects

The dinner-jacketed nuthatch.

The sun shines and catches colour

As they flit from one group to another

And then

The local gang appears

Rupturing this gently active peace

In a flurry of iridescent wing

The greedy starling and his mates

Bombastically barge in

The first diners hide in nearby tree



To hear the clap of hand

They know will come

And off go the blue tinged bully boys

At least six, and sometimes seven.

Have they left anything to eat?

They all flock back to see


Jane Richardson




They all look the same.

We've said it many times.

With their silly clothes

even when it's hot, 

their umbrellas in the rain.



Improbable legs.

Casual stance in the wire.
It doesn't take much interest in you;
as if, concerning humans,

it has the gist.


Seth Crook





'What's that behind me ?' - Seth Crook


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